


the bleak midwinter (long ago)

by coricomile



Category: Men's Hockey RPF, Philadelphia Flyers RPF
Genre: M/M, Post-Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21607810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: It's a stupid plan. It's a stupid plan and Mike's been regretting it since he bought his plane tickets. But it's the only plan he has, and Mike's going to stick to it.
Relationships: Jeff Carter/Mike Richards
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	the bleak midwinter (long ago)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissOtisRegrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissOtisRegrets/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy! I saw [these images and couldn't help myself.](https://ziegelmeyerphotography.com/covered-bridges/)

It's a stupid plan. It's a stupid plan and Mike's been regretting it since he bought his plane tickets. But it's the only plan he has, and Mike's going to stick to it. He jams his hands under his armpits and wishes he would have brought gloves. He feels like a teenager again, frustrated and antsy and a little lost. Literally and figuratively. 

The wind has died down, but the snow still climbs up over Mike's boots and soaks through his jeans. He has to give it to LA- he hasn't missed the cold. He carefully goose steps down the road, as close to the ditch as he can be without falling into it. So far there haven't been any cars, but he doesn't want to risk it. Ahead of him, the covered bridge glows in the darkness, the light radiating from it reflected off the snow. 

Mike shakes himself off when he hits the salted wood under the lip of the shelter. From the outside, it looked small. But inside it's a wide stretch of rough, worn wood crisscrossed for over a mile. Someone has strung up colored Christmas lights as far as Mike can see. They turn the whole stretch of bridge red and blue and green in patches. Mike feels like he's about to walk into Narnia or somewhere else where magic might be real. 

If this is an elaborate prank by Nash, Mike is going to kill him. 

He looks back over his shoulder at his rental, too shiny and out-of-place for fucking Ohio, but perfectly suited to LA. At least Jeff's car is there, too. He's got to be close. Mike takes a deep breath before steeling himself and entering the space under the bridge cover. It's warmer without the wind blowing directly into him, but the slats of the cover aren't held together well, warped and pushing their nails out, and big gaps still let in the snow. It piles up in patches, little snow dunes that creep up the wood in sickly, Christmas colored patches. 

Last Christmas, he and Jeff had gone up to Canada together and jumped into the lake behind Mike's place, naked and screaming the whole neighborhood down. His mom had called him to bend his ear about treating home with respect, but he'd been nursing a hangover and couldn't do much more than grunt in the right spots. Jeff had brought him hot chocolate made with Bailey's to warm him up while they unwrapped their over-taped gifts. They hadn't known that it would be over in just a few weeks. 

Mike squints into the dimness, one hand on the wall to guide him as he goes deeper into the tunnel. He can almost see the exit on the other side if he looks hard enough, but the in between is mostly darkness. He stops when his hand hits empty space and peeks in. 

The alcove is tidy, like someone bothered to sweep it up. The support beams and wooden slats of the cover are even more pocked and beaten here, and when Mike squints he can make out letters. There's dozens of them grouped together, initials and hearts carved into the wood. Some have dates. The one closest to Mike says it's from '73. 

Up a few feet, Jeff is curled up in a dip in the rafters, back on one and feet propped up on a cross beam. He's looking out from between a gap in the boards, hands folded around a travel mug from Starbucks. Mike can't imagine at what- all he'd seen was trees and snow. The lights throw his eyes into shadows, make his cheekbones even sharper than usual. Mike's chest aches looking at him. He always forgets how long Jeff is. Even crunched up the way he is and wrapped up in a familiar puffy coat, Jeff is all limbs. 

"You dramatic fuck," Mike says, because he doesn't have any words for what he wants to say. Jeff startles and nearly falls off his perch. 

"Mike?"

"Who the fuck else is going to come looking for you on Christmas Eve in fucking Ohio?" Mike asks. They're not even in Columbus. Mike had had to navigate snowy, winding back roads with Nash's shitty handwritten directions. He doesn't want to know how Jeff found this place on his own. 

He laughs when Jeff scoops him up into a hug. He can barely feel Jeff at all through all their layers, but he knows the smell of that hair gel, and his head fits right into the curve of Jeff's neck like it has since they were dumb teenagers. God, he's missed this. He's missed _Jeff_. He holds on for too long, but Jeff doesn't seem willing to let go either.

"It's not the same without you," Jeff says quietly, his breath hot against Mike's cheek. 

"We fucked up." Mike closes his eyes and breathes in the cold air and the faint smell of spiked hot chocolate off Jeff's breath. Jeff huffs. It's not a lot, but it's better than nothing. He looks somehow older when he pulls away, like it's been more than a few months since Mike saw him last. 

"We fucked up," Jeff repeats. He climbs back into his perch and Mike follows after him. 

The beams aren't very wide, and there isn't much room left between them when Mike squeezes his ass into the space Jeff left for him, but the wind is blocked from here, and Jeff is leaking warmth. He always used to turn the AC down to sixty when they shared space, and it used to drive Mike batshit crazy. Sometimes, when it's hard to sleep, he'll do the same thing and pretend he's in the right fucking state in the right fucking house. 

Now that he's here, Mike doesn't know what to do. It's been easy with Jeff since day one. Now, it feels like all those miles are still between them. He steals Jeff's cup, takes a drink, and nearly spits it back out. It's cold and apparently Jeff switched from Bailey's to rum. More festive. 

"Why are you here?" Mike asks, Jeff shrugs and looks back at the frozen over creek that runs under the bridge. It's pretty, sort of, in a bleak way. Frozen, dead trees outlined with snow reach back as far as Mike can see, everything almost like a black and white picture in the dark. This far away from a city, he can even see stars. 

"Why are you?" Jeff takes the last drink of his shitty hot chocolate, face scrunching as he grimaces. "I'm trying to get used to this place."

"You don't always have to be a martyr," Mike says after a moment. He thinks about their families, their new teams, the places they should be that's not the middle of Ohio. "You could have gone home." Jeff shrugs again. Usually, Mike's the one to play the silent game until Jeff drags out whatever's wrong with him. He doesn't know how to play from this side. "I miss you, too, you know."

"At least you've got LA to distract you." Jeff makes a face and then shakes his head. "I'm fucking trying to like it here, man. I am. I just." He fiddles with the cardboard holder around his cup, radiating misery. Mike's chest aches for him. He's got LA, but it's not as great as shitty Philly. It's not as great as _home_. "We fucked up."

There's nothing he can say to that, so Mike keeps his mouth shut. He turns his hand over in his lap and waits. It takes a few moments, but eventually Jeff reaches out, his frozen fingers curling around Mike's. 

Like they called it down, fat flakes of snow begin falling, slow at first and then faster, until the creek is totally blanketed. They should get in their cars before the roads get too bad. They should make a plan. They should do a lot of stuff, but Mike is starting to see what Jeff's getting out of this place. 

They sit there, their hands resting on Mike's thigh, passing the cold hot chocolate back and forth. Mike doesn't think about the long, lonely season or the ache of missing Jeff's voice. He's found Jeff before, and he's found him now. He'll keep finding him again and again, fuck whatever bullshit hurdle life gives him next time. 

Eventually, even Jeff has to give up his sulking and admit it's too cold. He shakes his hand away from Mike's, chucks the empty Starbucks cup into a snowbank, and hops down on the wooden boards. Before Mike can climb down with him, Jeff fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a penknife. He doesn't look at Mike as he hands it over. 

"It's fucking stupid," Jeff says, and it is, but Mike still flips the blade out and starts digging their initials into the still warm wood where Jeff had been sitting. "It's supposed to be like one of those lock bridges. Or something."

"Or something," Mike says as he hacks out the C. He doesn't know what he's feeling, wouldn't share it if he could. It doesn't look like Jeff would want to hear it out loud anyway. Instead Mike's flicks away the dirt and wood shavings and looks at the tiny, messy letters. 

"I fucking hate it here," Jeff says. He traces Mike's initials and Mike wishes they would have learned to listen, just fucking once. It's too late now. But their names are here forever. Their names are in Philly forever. It's going to have to be enough. 

Jeff rests his head on Mike's knee, swaying a little, and Mike closes his eyes. He doesn't believe in Christmas Magic, but he makes a wish anyway. He can only hope that it sticks.


End file.
